


Beef Stroganoff

by LiliGrey



Series: It's like coming home [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, I am really bad at tags, M/M, More Fluff, Rome - Freeform, Tourists, almost forgot, an internal debate about the definition of home, did anyone notice Illya was actually the one that cared the most, lots of beef stroganoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliGrey/pseuds/LiliGrey
Summary: Many years later, if you ask him, Illya would blame it on the fact his host forgot to mention that he was a magnificent cook. And that he makes a mean beef stroganoff.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Very very very ridiculously fluffy. Satisfy sweet tooth. Maybe I get you all present :D
> 
> It sort of started when I was thinking about the fact that out of all three of them, Illya, the supposed Russian iceberg, seemed to be the one who cared and felt the most.
> 
> Then this is what happened when one tries and fails to read up on the social behaviour of bees while being completely distracted by the smell of roommates' roast lamb...

It all started with beef stroganoff.

 

Illya Kuryakin had stayed at his fair share of hotels, from lavish suites to bunk beds in hovels. However this is the first time he will be staying with a host, a civilian host, for his cover. That's why he had no idea what to expect when he knocked on the door.

 

“Coming!” Within a few seconds, the door opened.

 

Despite everything, the first thing Illya noticed was the smell. For a moment his mind went straight back to his childhood, when he just came back from school and his mother would open the door for him, revealing the tantalizing smell of his favourite beef stroganoff and her beautiful apron clad figure.

 

Exactly like the man now standing in front of him.

 

“Hi, you must be Illya. I’m Napoleon. Welcome to my humble abode.” The man, Napoleon, said with a distinctively American accent and made a grandiose gesture to his rooms inside, with a wide smile on his face.

 

Illya blinked, and it took him a second too long to shake the proffered hand. His mind was still stuck on the fact that he was inhaling the familiar scent of stroganoff, in Rome, inside the house of his very American host, of all places.

 

“I take it you haven’t eaten yet?” Napoleon seemed to sense where his mind was wondering.

 

“No.” Embarrassingly, his stomach chose that exact moment to protest its negligence.

 

The American laughed good-naturedly. “Great! Then you wouldn’t mind joining me for dinner? I have been brushing up on my cooking lately and I’ve always wanted to test how authentic my stroganoff was.”

 

That’s how, later, Illya found himself sitting on the balcony, sharing a cup of genuine _sbiten_ , feeling completely sated in a very long time. There was just one lingering suspicion, though.

 

“You make this all for me?” He turned towards the man beside him, who was now seated languidly in the comfortable armchair, having clearly also enjoyed the good meal.

 

“Well, it would be a rather blatant lie if I said no, wouldn’t it?” Napoleon raised a playful eyebrow at him.

 

“Thank you. You are very nice host.” Illya really meant it. Earlier, when he had taken that first bite of the tender beef, he was deeply moved. No one, in too long a time, had ever done something this nice for him, and not in such a matter of fact way.

 

Napoleon chuckled. “You are welcome. I enjoyed the company.”

 

Backlit by the florescence of the city night, Napoleon’s features were softened, and his eyes shone as if he understood. Illya found himself smiling back.

 

///////////

 

The next few days, Illya played tourist, while discreetly tracking his target. It was an easy mission, one that wouldn’t require someone as skilled as he was. In fact, it was Gaby who had set it up for him. As a holiday.

 

“God knows that this is the only way for you to take time off. I’ve booked you in at a very lovely place in Rome and your cover is a tourist. You are under no circumstances to blow that cover, so go and pack for summer and play tourist for two weeks. You will _not_ come back before that.” She had then proceeded to shoo him away like a misbehaving boy.

 

Although slightly annoyed at how patronizing Gaby had been, he can only think of his witty partner with fondness. She was, once again, right, and the sun did seem to do him some good. The other thing she definitely got right was how lovely the place was, especially the host. He will need to thank her for that.

 

Watching the very boring man eating a very boring sandwich, his mind once again drifted back to his lovely host.

 

For once in his career at U.N.C.L.E., he did not rush to complete his mission. He knew just as well as Gaby did, that this mission was so low priority that U.N.C.L.E. wouldn’t even have bothered to send an agent to gather the intel.

 

For the past two days, he had in fact spent most of his time with Napoleon, who was only working part time at the little French bistro down the road, covering for a chef who went on holiday. When asked what he did, Napoleon had just waved it off as, “Oh, you know, all sorts. Full time AirBnB host, sometimes chef, occasional wedding photographer, once a Ferrari sales assistant, and now unofficial tour guide of Rome.” He had ended that with a wink and an impish grin.

 

Despite having been pretty much around the globe in his line of work, Illya continues to be impressed by Napoleon’s extensive travels and diverse experiences. He had listened to many stories, from the mildly amusing to the downright outrageous, especially the one where he claimed to have escaped insulted aboriginals on horseback. “American Cowboy” he had teased, to which Napoleon retorted with “Red Peril” and an eye roll, and the nicknames stuck.

 

Napoleon had taken him around to all the famous sights in Rome. He always seemed to know someone somewhere and they did not have to queue at all and get jammed up with all the other tourists. Even if he didn’t, he seemed to have the natural ability to charm his way and always get what he wanted. The most memorable being a private tour of Vatican City.

 

Then they had gone around the not so famous but breathtakingly beautiful places, on Cowboy’s motorbike. “Hold tight, Peril.” He smirked, then kicked off with an exuberant “yeehaw” and they both fell into helpless giggles.

 

Yesterday evening they found themselves crammed together at a rickety table in a coffee shop, sharing a chocolate sundae and simply enjoying the view of the sun setting over the stunning city.

 

Napoleon had turned to say something to him, and Illya found he couldn’t move his eyes away from the smudge of chocolate on the corner of his lips. After a moment of useless pointing, Illya had taken matters into his own hands and wiped the chocolate sauce off with his thumb. Not one to waste good chocolate, he had promptly licked it off, then lifted his head just in time to see suave, charming Napoleon blush to the root of his neck and ducking his head with a shy smile on his lips. It was unbearably endearing.

 

//////////

 

As with everything too good to be true, the reality was that they never are. True. Surprisingly, or rather not so surprisingly, the simple surveillance mission went quickly downhill when his mark decided to take a very uncharacteristic stroll to meet up with some very bad people he really shouldn’t be meeting. From there it had involved shooting, knives, blood, a lot of mud and a cleanly broken neck.

 

Dragging his tired and slightly bruised body, that was none the worse for wear, away from the now accomplished mission, he realized he had missed dinner with Napoleon and he couldn’t possibly return home in such a state.

 

It was only when he was taking a very hot shower in a seedy motel did he realize he had just thought of his two week accommodation as home. Something he hadn’t done ever since that fateful accident took away the only home he knew.

 

It was close to three in the morning when he finally got back to Napoleon’s apartment. The moment he opened the door on its silent hinges, he froze in the doorway, his eyes greedily drinking in the scene before him.

 

Napoleon had apparently waited up for him. His head was pillowed at an awkward angle on the couch, a paperback dangling from the tips of his fingers. The lamp beside him was still on, shedding soft light on his peacefully sleeping figure. Illya watched the soothing rise and fall of his chest, his fingers itching to brush back the loose curl tickling the American’s right eye. His Cowboy looked younger, more innocent. His gaze traced the smoothed out wrinkles on his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the soft curl of his lips and that ever so endearing dip of his chin.

 

Then he noticed the smell. It was much fainter and a little bit stale, but it was still unmistakably the familiar smell of beef stroganoff, the smell he had come to always associate with home.

 

Napoleon had made him beef stroganoff again.

 

Illya found his throat constrict, and in that moment, he felt truly and completely lost.

 

“Peril?”

 

A hoarse and slightly confused whisper shook him out of his reverie. He quietly shut the door behind him and moved to the couch.

 

“Wha’ time is’t?” Napoleon’s words were slightly slurred from sleep. “I made you stroganoff.”

 

Murmuring soothing nonsense, Illya half-carried, half-dragged his half-asleep host into the bedroom, taking off his slippers and tucking him into bed. His Cowboy sank into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. Just as he was about to turn off the lights and leave, Napoleon caught his wrist and mumbled, “Stay?”

 

“Yes. I will stay, Cowboy.”

 

Napoleon hummed happily and fell back into a deep slumber.

 

/////////

 

On the last night of his stay in Napoleon’s lovely penthouse, they found themselves in a very similar position on the balcony as their first night. Except this time, they are sipping at Russian vodka instead of tea.

 

They are both a little tipsy.

 

"I, can I visit you in Moscow? I can always work in that photography shop again. Or, learn to cook proper Russian food. It's a bit cold for me in the winter, but I won't mind." Napoleon blurted out, then quickly caught himself as he realized he was rambling.

 

"I, uh, live in New York now. Sorry. Did not mean to lie to you." Illya found himself replying truthfully.

 

"Oh, I guess I never asked. Lie by omission, didn't know you could be so sneaky, Peril.” Napoleon smirked at him, but his eyes were bright as he continued. “In fact, I own a coffee shop in New York. I was thinking of perhaps opening another one."

 

"You are everywhere, Cowboy." He grumbled, but his heart felt lighter.

 

“Hmm, no. I’m just always exactly where I want to be.” Napoleon looked back at him with those uncannily knowing eyes.

 

Illya liked that particular sentiment.

 

“Does your coffee shop make good stroganoff?”

 

Napoleon laughed, and the laughter carried far into the night air, deep into Illya’s heart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think I might do a follow up of them in New York. Probably even fluffier than this one. I'll see when I feel like fluff again :)


End file.
